on trial
the sun on peach and green
leaves summer
in indigo six o’clock shadows.
this, too, is evidence.
i wear a mask of white camellias
and you pluck them off one by one
and it is almost
enough to convict me.
fine, look here:
a hole in my pocket, a little notebook
of words i can’t pronounce,
a pair of shoes lightly scuffed.
shame, shame, shame.
i won’t even ask for a kiss
before you see me hang.